


You + Me: The Remix

by goldenzingy46, midnightbiscotti



Series: Tomarry Works [23]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Choking, Eventual Happy Ending, Historical Accuracy, Immortality, Kissing, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Memory Loss (technically), Mild Language, Murder, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Renaissance Era, Serial Killer Tom Riddle, Serial Killers, Temporary Character Death, Tomarry Throughout Time, Unhealthy Relationships, because fuck you that's why
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46, https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightbiscotti/pseuds/midnightbiscotti
Summary: In their first life, Harry was a painter, and he painted Tom so beautifully that Tom would never age, never die, until the painting was destroyed.Tom, in a fit of rage, murdered him before he could find out where the painting was, and was doomed to a life of immortality he didn't want.Harry is reborn, again and again, drawn the the enigma that is Tom Riddle, but with no memories of life number one.And in every life, Tom Riddle abandons Harry to search for a painting that would never be found.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Tomarry Works [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091711
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56





	You + Me: The Remix

Tom Riddle liked things that fascinated him.

Things that he couldn't quite understand, that were beautiful and deadly, even if he couldn't see it yet.

Harry Potter was one of those things.

Tom only met Harry because he met the Malfoys, a wealthy merchant family with just enough kindness to transform a homeless orphan into a well-paid servant. Then the Malfoys decided they needed a portrait of each of them, and they hired the painter who was supposed to be the best.

"We are a family," Lucius had said. "And I want the whole world to know it."

Hence the arrival of Harry Potter. 

Harry had arrived in one particularly hot summer, in the month of July, and Tom had never expected to be caught up in the first glance he had of the mysterious painter. His dark hair was artfully swept across his face, cheekbones well defined, and his eyes, a striking shade of green, like a rock pool reflecting in the sunlight (and _oh_ , Tom could wax _lyrical_ about those eyes) swept right over Tom, barely paying attention to the presence of a mere servant boy.

Tom was fascinated.

Harry Potter was offered a suite at the top of the house, offered to dine with the Malfoys as a guest, and then the next day he had them sit down and pulled out a set of paints.

He saw Tom multiple times, and yet _he didn't see Tom_.

All he saw was a servant, irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, a boy that gave out some dishes or handed him some things sometimes. He didn't see the way Tom's eyes stalked his movement, following his hands as he painted, watching the dexterity of his fingers, basking in the way Harry danced across the canvas, creating a snapshot of time. Harry didn't see the way Tom's eyes watched the curve of his leg, or how his breath caught every time Harry entered a room, he didn't see how Tom looked at him when nobody else was there.

Harry saw Tom, and yet he didn't see Tom.

Harry didn't even seem to see what was in front of his face - Tom's elegant cheekbones, dark hair he wrapped round his fingers until it curled, just for Harry, to see if he could catch Harry's eye. He didn't see that time Tom had gone as far as to wink at him, or the smiles he offered up, or the shine in his eye when he asked if Harry needed anything.

Tom didn't even think Harry knew his _name_.

Tom usually collected missives for the Malfoys and gave them out at dinner, and, as usual, Lucius dismissed the importance of the letter and asked Tom to read it aloud.

Tom obeyed, of course, with only the slightest regret. He had tried to warn him.

When Tom finished, Lucius was icily pale. His hands shook as he plucked the message from Tom's hand, eyes scanning over the lines of text like they would read differently, like they would change, like Tom had lied to him and that he could hide from the truth for longer.

Severus, his dear friend Severus, the godfather of his son, was a protestant.

"Severus," he whispered. "Oh, Severus, what have you done?"

There was nothing to be saved now. It was one thing to taint his name by _being_ a disgrace of a protestant, but a whole different one to be _caught_.

There was no saving Severus now.

And then he glanced up, face calm and emotions firmly intact. "Severus is a protestant, it appears."

He saw a flicker of shock dance behind Narcissa's eyes. "Oh, that's a shame." A pause. "Do we attend the burning?"

Lucius cleared his throat, evening his voice out to the best of his ability. "Perhaps, if we leave Draco at home. I wouldn't want him to witness something so traumatic at his age."

"We can't leave him behind," she murmured. "Best just not to go at all."

Tom was frozen, eyes fixed on Harry, who had yet to react at all.

Harry was a catholic, of course, the good Queen Mary wouldn't burn him, but Harry would look glorious bathed in flames. An avenging angel, come to right wrongs, to reunite with his lover--

"Boy!" Lucius snapped, and Tom was jerked out of his daydream.

"Yes, sir?"

"Why are you still standing here?"

"Sorry, sir."

***

Then something rather _unfortunate_ happened.

Draco, in his grief, found a companion in Harry, the two of them meeting up after the sessions. Tom hoped that their correspondence would stop in a few days, whether it was the fact Draco would become bored of Harry, or that Harry would be offended by the boy's arrogance.

But it didn't.

Every single day, they would meet, and talk, and what was worse was that they seemed to enjoy it.

Tom smouldered away, trying not to hiss every time he saw the two of them together, especially when he saw Harry's eyes - _bright, almost translucent green eyes_ \- light up at certain moments of conversation. And then Tom couldn't stop the quiet hiss, as, for the first time since Harry had arrived, he laughed.

It wasn't that Harry's laugh wasn't beautiful - it _was_ \- it was simply that it was not Tom that made him laugh, but Draco, not Tom that made that laugh ring out, clear as day and music to his ears.

And that was the most offending thing Draco Malfoy could've done.

Tom felt him tolerance of Draco diminishing every day, every minute, and every second he spent talking to Harry. All because it wasn't himself talking to Harry. No, Tom was stuck watching on the side lines, observing every single word exchanged between the two.

Harry was now onto painting Draco's portrait, with Narcissa and Lucius leaving Tom to watch their son.

Tom watched Harry finalise the last strokes of a painting nearly done, Draco's smug face sneering at him in double.

"Your parents requested that you join them in the dining hall," Harry said, gesturing for Draco to leave. "I'm sure the servant can clean up by himself."

 _The servant_.

Tom held no illusions as to what Harry thought of him, little more than a servant boy to use, abuse, and forget, but it stung every time he heard it.

He tried to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking as he tidied the painting equipment away, and he thought, _What if I just dropped it?_

He paused. _If I let his precious painting equipment shatter on the ground, would he notice me?_

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he let go.

It slipped through his fingers, tumbling downwards, and he watched, captivated by the fragile object dropping to the ground, hearing the sound of it shattering. His head snapped up, searching for Harry's response, and freezing.

Tom almost flinched at the fury burning behind those beautiful eyes, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. Harry was finally looking at him, and him alone.

Harry finally _saw_ Tom as a person, who he was, and Tom could never regret what it took to get here.

Having the painter's full attention on him, the raw emotion rolling off of him in waves, was like every nerve in his body was light on fire, screaming in delight as he practically _glowed_ from the attention. Tom revelled in the feeling yet twisted his expression into one of shock.

"Do you know what you've done?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Harry's knuckles were white from clenching them, and he exhaled with a faint hiss. "Do you know how much money that costs?"

"No, sir."

"You," Harry snapped, "Are going to pay me back."

Tom lifted his eyes to meet Harry, a ghost of a smile curling onto his face. "But sir," he began. "I don't _have_ money."

For a moment, Harry's eyes contained storms that had razed cities, staring at him in a way that made Tom tense up, almost as if he were waiting for Harry to strike. As much as he loathed to admit it, the painter seemed truly _furious_ in a way that made the earlier anger pale in comparison.

Tom thought about moving away from him, to stop provoking him, but a part of him thought, _he's thinking of me and me alone._

Maybe that was why Tom's lips twitched upwards, why he let the barest glimmer of teeth be shown in his grin.

 _Test me_ , he didn't say, but Harry saw it.

And then it was gone, all the righteous anger, and replaced with a single, calm, smile.

"Very well then. From what I can tell, you're little but a servant, so funds would be hard to come by." He sighed theatrically. "Luckily for you, I had a different payment in mind."

Harry stalked closer to Tom and looked up at him, analysing his face, the way his shoulders curved, then further down until he was satisfied with his examination, then nodded as though he was confirming something, "You have pleasant features. It would be rewarding to me if I were to paint you."

Hours and hours alone with Harry, watching him work, having Harry focused on him? Bliss.

"Aren't you leaving today, sir?" Tom asked, letting a naive look slide across his face.

"I can book rooms in the tavern down the road. I'm sure you can sneak out."

Tom smiled. "I'll see you then, sir."

***

Finally, the day had come. The Malfoys had a business meeting in the town over and had left Tom to keep the house in pristine condition until they came back. It was the perfect time. They left the day prior and despite how eager Tom was to meet Harry, he had to make sure that they wouldn't come back yet. And if they did? Everything they wanted would already be done.

It had taken many hours of just cleaning to make sure of it. He wanted no possibility of failure.

Tom's heart skipped a beat, thinking of Harry, and how Harry was going to paint his portrait. Would Harry be waiting for him? How would Harry paint him?

He wore his best attire, well, the best he had as a working servant. Locking up the house, he walked down the road following the turns until he reached a very familiar tavern. It was homely in a way, comforting and loud, warm lights and people gathered around chatting happily, if not slightly drunk.

Tom glanced around the bar, feeling out of his element, until he spotted the familiar dark-haired artist sitting by himself.

Harry nodded at Tom when he arrived. "Riddle." His lips curved up, then, and he corrected himself. "Tom. I wasn't sure you'd come."

Tom's heart _sung_.

Harry licked the last of his drink from his lips, and Tom found his eyes wandering downwards without his permission, heat flaring in his cheeks.

Harry met his eyes, and murmured, "Be careful, _Tom_ , the law doesn't like where you're looking. Shall we head upstairs?"

And then he was moving before Tom could stammer out a denial, or an apology, or wonder if he'd just been propositioned.

He trailed after Harry quietly, wary of those last words. Tom wondered if this meant Harry was interested in him, especially if he was aware of the... _attraction_ he felt towards him. Or, perhaps, was this a warning of sorts telling Tom to be careful? He wasn't sure, and the more time he thought about it, the more he was conflicted. An offer, or a warning?

 _Be careful, Tom,_ he thought, and followed Harry into his rooms.

***

Tom wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Harry led him further into the cramped room, littered with various painting supplies.

He stopped when they reached the corner, dimly lit, and furnished with a small, uncomfortable-looking chair. It was exhilarating to realize Harry was looking at him and him alone, but in a way it still felt _wrong_. It was almost as if he was a doll, being moved to the whims of his owner.

Every touch was delicate and carefully thought out, brushing Tom's arms like sweet kisses on a summer’s day. He found himself almost weeping with every movement, allowing himself to be manhandled wherever he liked as long as he could feel Harry's fingers, watching the methodical rise and fall of his chest and the muscles coiling underneath his skin.

When he pulled back, Tom craved for more.

Harry moved back and sat on a worn stool. He picked out colours from his paints with the eye of the artist he was. Tom watched as he chose a brush and dabbed the first curves of the portrait – his portrait. From there, Harry seemed to be a different person. Every stroke, every decision, confident and thoughtful. He never hesitated, brush dancing across the canvas, bringing Tom to life, like a mirror.

Tom was utterly fascinated.

It had been over an hour by now, and Tom was desperate to break the silence. "How long have you been painting?" he asked.

Harry's head snapped up. "Be quiet."

That was it. A simple dismissal.

Tom swallowed. "I just wanted to know."

"Don't."

The silence was overbearing in a way, especially after the cutting rejection from Harry. Tom felt restless, like he needed to move around and run. He couldn't remember the last time he sat this still, even in the manor.

He began to fidget, unable to hold in the urge to move.

Harry _looked_ at him, a single, cold glance that froze Tom is his tracks, heart hammering as he turned away.

Tom tried his best; he truly did, it was for Harry, after all. But the silence seemed to stretch into decades and he just couldn't stay still.

Tom's skin itched, and he shuffled slightly on his chair. He had never considered that portraits would take _so long_.

He could _feel_ Harry's fury without even looking at him, and he stood up. "I need to get back now."

It was a lie, and Harry knew it.

***

Days went by, and Tom slipped out again and again to meet Harry Potter, to sit and suffer as his portrait was painted, until he couldn't take it anymore.

"I can't do this," he said, standing up. "I'll find some other way of paying you back. Contact me."

Harry rose an eyebrow. "There is no other way to pay me back."

"Good day, Harry Potter," Tom responded, the door thudding shut behind him as he left.

This would be Tom's biggest mistake.

He never received a response from Harry, and he didn't know if he should be disappointed or relieved.

Disappointed, perhaps, because he'd never get to see his Harry ever again, or relieved, because he'd never have to sit still, never have to pay him back for the supplies he had destroyed.

The Malfoys were gone for the day, and Tom was too curious; curiosity had always been a fatal flaw of his.

He slipped out, intending on seeing if Harry was there, and then going home. That was it. Nothing more.

Of course, things never went to plan for Tom Riddle.

The second he stepped through the door, he realised something was wrong. Mostly because the bartender stepped towards him, a frown etched onto his face, but still.

"You are the companion of Mister Potter?" he asked.

"Yes," Tom responded, somewhat warily.

"He paid us a handsome sum of money to hold onto your gift."

_My gift?_

"Ah, thank you, may I see the… gift?"

Tom knew he sounded hesitant, but he was rightfully suspicious. He’d stormed out and broken their agreement, after all.

The man left the room, returning with a large canvas in hand and Tom recognized it immediately.

_Why would he gift me something I never asked for?_

Tom froze, hastily thanking the man before hefting up the portrait and taking it with him. He had to find Harry Potter - the man was an enigma, even now.

Climbing the stairs, he saw the door to the room that had been his own personal Hell. It was unlocked, and unused for now, a single note the only personalised item it contained.

And it was for Tom, of course it was.

Written on the note, in a messy scrawl were the vague but ominous words, _'Try to die, Tom Riddle'_.

Tom swallowed, mouth unexpectedly dry, and swore he'd find him. Find him just to get answers - why leave him a portrait he didn't want? Why threaten him in the oddest way possible?

It was not as though Tom was afraid of death.

He'd say it wasn't quite a _craving_ \- but it was close. He knew he was too fascinated for his own good, of course, but the point was that death had never scared him.

Did he underestimate Harry? Or did it mean something else?

After many desperate nights of searching for the artist, something finally happened, a clue of his whereabouts. But at a cost.

He woke up in cold sweat, a nightmare, of what he wasn't sure. Tom glanced around his room feeling uncomfortable, more than he had in a while. Then he noticed. The portrait was gone, with a note in its place.

In the same handwriting from the other note, was written, _'Meet me in the room where the portrait took place.'_

He went to meet him, of course, even though it was probably a trap. He needed answers. He needed _Harry_.

Tom got out of bed, uncaring of his appearance, and began to run over to the now familiar tavern.

Harry was there, a small smile perched upon his face, and gestured to the window.

"Climb."

Tom was shaking with fury - how dare he? How dare he disappear for weeks and come back and order Tom around? - but he began the descent anyway, Harry's cold words controlling him like a puppet.

Harry followed him down, and marched away swiftly, heading for a crypt.

It was dark, and the cool air scraped at Tom's lungs.

Nobody held a meeting in a crypt unless they planned to break the law.

Harry stabbed him.

It was a single blow to the chest, easily fatal, knocking the wind out of Tom and sending him crashing to the ground, nerves screaming as he gasped from the pain, too weak to fight as Harry removed the blade and stood back, an icy smile curling across his face.

Tom's skin knit itself back together, the only thing telling the world that there had ever been a wound the bloodstains around it, and Tom _stared_.

"Do you like my gift?" Harry asked, and his words were soft. Mocking.

"Like it?" Tom hissed, shock fading. " _Like it?"_

He scrambled to his feet, hands twitching, barely holding himself back. _"What have you done to me?"_

"My portraits are the best," Harry said. "The world bows to me, and now I have painted you, you do too."

His self-control snapped; rage was all that was left.

He leapt at Harry and dragged him to the ground, grasping the painter's neck in a tight grip. " _How could you?"_

Tom watched as the breath slowly left Harry, as his fingers bruised his neck. Yet his anger was still not satiated, he wanted Harry to feel the pain of never dying, what Tom will have to suffer through.

What Harry had made him suffer through.

Harry was laughing, even as his windpipe was crushed, breaths ragged as his life was choked right out of him. He laughed, and laughed, and _laughed_ , even as Tom screamed, pinning him down.

"Beg for mercy," he hissed, pressing harder, watching blood vessels burst in his grip. " _Beg_!"

Harry laughed and laughed, eyes bulging out of his skull, air cut off and every exhale wet and bloody, saliva dripping from his lips until he was silent, and wouldn't answer Tom no matter how hard he tried.

And Tom had no idea where the portrait was kept.

Harry - Harry's _corpse_ \- fell from his grip, and he staggered backwards.

"No," he whispered. " _No_!"

A high-pitched whine left his throat, and he fled, putting as much distance between him and the body as he could. He had to find that damn portrait. He _had_ to.

Tom travelled far and wide, gaining riches and prestige as he tried to find the painting that may well have replaced God, for all he cared. There was one thing standing between him and a peaceful oblivion, and it was this portrait he made the mistake of sitting for.

He would find it, he knew he would, he would search and search until he had found it and destroyed it, spiting his gorgeous, terrible Harry, watch it burn with the flames of his passion and his hatred, watch it burn away his life until he could finally die. He would find it. He would.

After all, he had all of eternity to search.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave kudos & comments! They make our day :)
> 
> Also: a link to my (goldenzingy46's) server! https://discord.gg/rUSNPEB


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